Chapter 14

           

            Supper at Camp Cord was eaten around a bonfire while the sun slowly sank behind the mountains.  Hot dogs were roasted on long sticks, and corn on the cob was cooked on a row of grills.  Everything a person desired to dress their food with, from buns, to ketchup, to relish, to mustard, to onions, to butter and salt, was spread out on a table that had been carried from the mess hall.  Rick enjoyed every morsel of the meal and washed it down with gulps of ice cold beer.  The activities of the afternoon had left him hungry, thirsty, hot and tired.  He was looking forward to a cool shower and a comfortable bed.

 

            Rick thought the boys he'd observed earlier in the day might join the men for supper, but by the time the meal was ending he realized that was not to be the case.  Evidently the men and boys were kept segregated throughout their weekend stay.

 

            The detective sat next to Cord in one of the folding chairs that had also been carried from the mess hall.  It was after nine o'clock now, and Rick was bushed.  He'd risen at four that morning.  Between the long ride here, the hikes he'd taken, and the ‘war game’ he was ready for bed.  The other men seemed unaffected by the day.  But then, Rick supposed, they were used to the weekend routine by now.

 

            The beer flowed like wine as the night progressed.  Rick halted his drinking after three bottles, in part because he couldn't pack the booze away without feeling the side effects like he’d been able to when was a younger man, and in part because he wanted to keep his mind clear. That didn't seem to be a concern for the majority of his companions.  As evidenced by what Rick had observed throughout the day, they worked hard, they played hard, and now they drank hard.            

 

            As darkness fell over the camp an almost euphoric mood seemed to ascend, though Rick contributed this mood more to the alcohol than he did to the setting sun.  The men sat in groups around the fire, its flames soaring five feet over their heads. They talked and laughed at a volume that would have disturbed anyone within a two mile radius.  Another reason, Rick presumed, why Cord liked the isolation of this place.  When too much Miller Genuine Draft made a camper's lips loose, there was no one around to hear his indiscretions other than his friends.

 

            Rick sat slumped in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles.  The final beer he was nursing rested on his thighs.  Bidwell sat on the other side of Cord, keeping up a steady stream of conversation Rick couldn't overhear because of the noise created by the remaining seventy campers.  When a man sitting across from them yelled,  "Hey, General!  When we gonna blow up some buildings and kill us some of them damn spics who take our jobs away and refuse to learn English?"   Rick simply took another swallow of his beer.  He could feel Cord looking at him out of the corner of his eye.  The detective raised his beer bottle and toasted the distant man. 

 

            "Sounds like a good idea to me."  Rick tilted his beer bottle to his lips again, this time feeling Cord's smile of approval.

 

            By ten-thirty the gathering showed no signs of losing steam.  Rick, however, had been out of steam for quite some time now.  All he wanted to do was shower and drop into bed.  He had no idea if he was about to commit a faux pas by being the first man to call it a night, but he didn't really care.  If he stayed up any longer he'd fall asleep in his chair.

 

            Rick stood, his movement drawing Cord's eyes from the half-blitzed Tom Bidwell. 

 

            "I'm gonna take a shower and hit the sack if you don't mind.  I'm beat."

 

            Cord smiled, standing as well.  "Not used to all this outdoor activity, huh, Sarge?"

            "Not to this degree, no."

 

            Franklin patted Rick on the arm.  "That's fine.  You clean up and call it a night if you want.  Things will be winding down here in another hour or so.  I'll see you then."

 

            "Great."

 

            The two men walked to the table that still held remnants of dinner.  Cord bent and pulled another beer from a cooler, while Rick deposited his bottle in a barrel already teaming with amber glass.

 

            "Night, Rick," Cord called to the departing man's back.

 

            Rick half turned and gave his friend a wave.  "Night."

 

            The shouts and laughter coming from the bonfire's arena faded to some degree as Rick walked toward Cord's cabin.  He fumbled in the dark until he found the wall switch.  He squinted, momentarily blinded, when the bright overhead light came on.  The heels of his hiking boots scuffed against the wooden floor.  The detective pawed through his duffel bag, retrieving a clean pair of boxer shorts, socks, jeans, a bath towel, washcloth and his shaving kit.  He took off the camouflage shirt Cord had lent him and hung it over the end of one of the posts on the upper bunk bed.  He tucked his body between the upper bunk and the lower one where his sleeping bag sat.  He unrolled the bag so it would be ready to crawl into when he returned.   He fluffed the pillow he'd secured inside the sleeping bag and placed it at the head of the bed.

 

            Rick looked toward the bonfire as he crossed the compound from Cord's cabin to the shower room.  No one had strayed from the large circle of men, or at least not that Rick could tell.  He didn't encounter anyone else from the time he left the cabin until he entered the shower room glowing as bright as day with twenty-five naked one-hundred watt bulbs.

 

            The block building had a cement floor and smelled of mildew.  A concrete wall separated the shower area from the toilets and sinks.  A stainless steel shelf ran between the sinks, and the long mirror that was mounted on the wall.  Rick placed everything he was carrying on the shelf and then made use of one of the low sitting urinals on the wall.  He had to half bend at the knees to get the job done.

 

            These damn things are just the right height for a nine-year-old boy, but they're sure hell to use when you're six foot two.

 

            When his pants were zipped back up Rick crossed to the bank of sinks that numbered twenty.  He washed his hands, grabbing a piece of course brown paper toweling from the shelf to dry them on.  He tossed the towel in the garbage barrel by the door then dug through his shaving kit.  He brushed his teeth, and then shaved so he wouldn't have to deal with that job in the morning.  He put his razor, toothpaste, and toothbrush back in his case. He took out a miniature bar of soap wrapped in paper with Morning Glory Motel stamped on the front, and a tiny bottle of shampoo bearing the same logo.  Rick couldn't help but smile a bit at these two items.  Back in 1986 he and A.J. had solved a case for the elderly couple that owned the Morning Glory Motel.  Aside from the fee Rick and his brother had collected, the grateful proprietors insisted on giving them a huge box filled with soap and shampoo. Rick recalled how he'd bitched to A.J. the entire drive back to their office about this so-called bonus they'd received.  He never could have imagined how often he'd make use of these handy little items in the years to come.

 

            Rick unwrapped the bar of soap, throwing the paper into the barrel before bending to unlace his boots.  He stripped his clothes off and left them in a pile under the sink he'd been using.  He padded naked around the brick wall, entering the communal shower room carrying his washcloth, soap, and shampoo.  Like the sinks, the showerheads numbered twenty and had a stainless steel ledge running all around them that was set four feet off the floor.  The detective placed his shampoo and soap on the ledge.  He turned on a faucet, playing with it until he got a lukewarm stream of water.  He plunged underneath the spray, allowing the water to wash away a day's worth of dirt and sweat. 

 

            Over the sound of the shower's spray Rick heard someone come in and use one of the urinals.  Whoever it was didn't disturb him.  By the time Rick shut the water off he was alone again.  He wrung his washcloth out, capped his shampoo bottle and grabbed what was left of his soap.  For lack of anything better to do with it, he tossed the soap in the garbage as he passed.  He grabbed his towel off the sink and dried himself. Within five minutes he was dressed in clean clothes and slipping his feet into unlaced  boots.

 

            The walk back to Cord's cabin was as unhindered as the walk to the shower room had been.  If anything, the gathering was growing louder, the men's jocularity fueled by alcohol.  Rick jumped at the first explosion, his impulse being to hit the ground.  Three rapid 'pop, pop, pops' later, he realized some of the campers had fireworks and were now celebrating the holiday.

 

            Rick hung his damp towel and washcloth on a hook protruding from one side of the cabin's doorway.  The detective surmised the hook had been put there to hold a flower basket back when the camp was in use.  Regardless of its purpose, it made a good place for his wet articles to dry before they had to be packed in the duffel bag the next day. 

 

            He entered the cabin and crossed to his bunk.  Funny, now that Rick was alone his exhaustion wasn't his foremost concern.  Doing the job he was hired for took precedence.  The detective rolled his dirty clothes up into a tight ball, using the legs of his jeans to secure everything.  He laid the clothing on the top bunk next to his duffel bag so he wouldn't forget to throw the bundle inside before he went home.   He tossed his shaving kit up there, too, then went to the window and looked out.  Orange flames reflected his face back at him.  As near as Rick could tell, everyone remained occupied around the fire. 

 

            Amidst the sounds of firecrackers and bottle rockets, the detective rifled through his duffel bag.  He pulled out a yolk necked khaki undershirt, and then dug to the very bottom.  When his right hand encountered leather and metal he grasped the objects and brought them into view.  He slipped the thin lock pick case and the silver penlight in his back pocket before pulling his T-shirt over his head.  He sat on the edge of his bunk, his fingers racing to tie his bootlaces.

 

            Rick kept one eye on the bonfire gathering as he exited the cabin.  He walked with purpose toward the bathroom, being careful not to make his stride too fast lest he was being observed from afar.  The detective entered the block building, and was relieved to find it empty.  He walked past the sinks, urinals and metal stalls.  When he came to the back door he eased it open a mere crack.  Just like he suspected it might be, the mysterious building behind the bathroom was now devoid of a guard.  Either someone had been granted permission to join the fraternizing, or once again one of Cord's people was in need of disciplining.  Rick didn't dwell on which it might be.  He'd learned long ago to take advantage of whatever situations presented themselves without wasting time pondering his good fortune.

 

            The beam of a floodlight from behind the mess hall crawled far enough to bathe this area in shadows.  Rick used the faint light to guide him the one hundred feet that bridged the space between the back of the bathroom and the front of his destination.  Though he was now behind the activity going on in the center of the compound, he didn't let his guard down.  He crouched low and silently ran for the wooden building.  He secreted himself against its east wall and stood pressed against the boards until he reached a mental count of fifty.  When he felt certain his movements hadn't been detected, Rick eased along the green clapboard siding.  Rather than moving toward the front of the building and the door it contained, he slid toward the back of it.  He wanted to ascertain any other means of entry or exit before he continued.

 

            The east wall contained no windows or doors, but that was not the case with the back wall that faced north.  A window five feet long by four feet wide stood in the center of the building.  Rick estimated the drop to the ground for a man his size going in or out of the window would be no more than three feet.   Certainly not enough to present a danger to him if he was forced to make use of it as an escape route.  The detective squinted into the darkness, seeing the shadows of trees in the distance.  The open field where the target shooting took place lay between the building and the woods.  That desolate space could present a danger to Rick if he were forced to run for cover.  Nonetheless, his options were limited.  Once he was beyond the field, the woods and the dark night would offer him some protection.  Of course, Rick had to take into account that Cord and his men knew those woods far better than he did. 

 

            Rick worried his lower lip a moment, trying to decide if this was the best way to proceed.  Given time, Cord might reveal what types of treasures were locked up in this building that was in need of an armed guard.  But considering what Rick had seen of Camp Cord in just twelve hours, he didn't feel he had the luxury of time. If there was something stored here the FBI needed to know about.  Rick wanted to get that information to Pellman Creek as soon as possible.

 

            The detective's final decision made, he cupped his hands over his face and peered in through the window.  Unfortunately, the interior was pitch black, making it impossible to see what was inside.  Rick slid his penlight out of his back pocket and shone it through the glass.  Just as he suspected it would be, the light's beam was too weak to be of any help.  He returned the small light to his pocket and continued on his reconnaissance mission.  He eased around the corner of the back wall, coming to rest against the west wall that faced the mess hall.  Rick saw no door or window here, and was just about to travel back the way he'd come when someone stepped out through the double doors at the rear of the kitchen. 

 

            Rick pressed himself against the building.  He was well aware of how exposed he now was.  Granted, there was no moon tonight meaning the surrounding area was dark, but enough illumination came from the floodlight to cause Rick to wonder if he could be seen. 

 

            The detective was careful to make no movement.  The cook threw a pan of water onto the grass, then turned.   He stopped for a moment, looking right at Rick.  Years of private investigation work had gained Rick the patience he'd been lacking as a younger man.  He held his ground like a stalking wolf, waiting to see if the cook would send out a cry of alarm. 

 

            Rick didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until the man continued into the mess hall.  He knew then that he hadn’t needed to worry about being spotted.  The bright lights spilling out of the double doors of the mess hall had blinded the cook.

 

            Rick eased his lanky frame to the rear of the building once more.  He peered around the corner where the north wall met the east.  When he determined the coast was clear he made his way to the front.

 

            As the detective stood before the locked door he knew this was where he'd be the most vulnerable.  Though he was well-hidden within the shadows of the building, he'd easily be seen if someone stepped out the back door of the bathroom.  The sound of exploding fireworks still came from the front of the compound.  Rick hoped this meant everyone was gathered there yet. 

 

            Rick learned long ago not to make a black bag job harder than it was.  He tried the doorknob on the off chance it would be unlocked.  He didn't expect that to be the case, and it wasn't.  However, just with that quick turn of his hand he determined he was dealing with a simple tumbler lock, meaning gaining entrance would be child's play. 

 

            By feel alone the lanky man slipped the necessary pick out of his case.  He turned his penlight on and put the end of it in his mouth.  He got down on his knees and went to work.  The muffled sound of a flushing toilet almost made him fall into the dark space when he popped the lock.   He crawled inside the building, silently closing the door behind him and relocking it.  

 

            Rick crouched by the door, listening to the night sounds.  The noise from the party was somewhat fainter now.   He waited a few seconds longer, but when he didn't hear anyone come out the back door of the john he assumed lady luck was once again on his side.

 

            The detective slid his lock pick back in the case while shining the tiny penlight around the room.  He was careful to keep the light's beam away from the window.  He saw no overhead lights or light switches, leading him to believe this building was without electricity.  If it had been a garden shed like he suspected, the lack of electricity didn't surprise him. 

 

            Rick took five steps forward and smacked his shins against something solid and

heavy. 

 

            "Shit!  What the hell was that?"

 

            Not for the first time Rick wished he had a decent flashlight, as opposed to the midget one he was carrying.   He made the best of his situation, shining the light on the object that was causing pain to vibrate in his shinbones.  A wooden crate eight feet long by six feet deep sat in front of him.  The detective shined the light around the room.  Though its beam was weak and narrow, Rick could see the entire interior of the twenty by twenty shed was filled with identical crates.

 

            Rick crouched on his knees, ignoring the residual pain that still bit at his shins.  His light revealed a padlock on the crate's lid.  Rick popped this lock with the same ease he'd used on the door lock.  He wanted to say he was surprised at what the crate's contents revealed, but he wasn't, and for some reason a deep feeling of both sorrow and depression washed over him.

 

            With the aid of the penlight Rick took inventory of the automatic weapons.  They were stacked like sardines in a can, packed tightly to allow for maximum storage.  He counted as best he could, coming up with fifty.

 

            Rick locked this crate, then moved at random among the rest.  He soon discovered Cord was well-stocked in Uzi's, AK47's and M-16's.  Other crates held grenades, while others housed sticks of dynamite.  There was enough firepower in this one building to take over a small country.  Or a good portion of San Diego.

 

            Rick shook his head with despair and lifted another lid.  This crate was filled with automatic weapons, but something else was lying inside as well.  The penlight flitted across a tiny scrap of paper.  He picked it up and unfolded it.  Two words were stamped on it with black ink in a language Rick couldn't read.  He shoved the miniscule slip in the pocket of his jeans for now.  He relocked the wooden box then stood and took inventory, silently counting the rows of crates.

 

            With his count complete and the letters on that tiny piece of paper swirling in his head, Rick put his penlight in his back pocket and made his way to the door.  He hadn't heard any fireworks in several minutes now.  That cessation of sound lead him to believe the party might be breaking up.

 

            The detective planned to exit the building the same way he'd entered, then make his way to the bathroom.  From there if anyone spotted him they'd just think he'd felt the need to empty beer from his bladder.

 

            Rick's preoccupied mind almost prevented him from hearing the men's voices.  He dropped to his knees and crawled down the only aisle in the room.  If he'd had any girth to him at all he'd have never squeezed through the narrow space.  Just as the door opened Rick slid between the last row of crates and the back wall.  He shimmied his body to the corner before coming to lie straight and still.

 

            A flashlight beam considerably stronger than the one Rick had been using traversed the room.  Because he was lying on his side behind five crates in a space no wider than eighteen inches Rick was fairly certain the beam wouldn't land on him.  But if the men knew he was here and began moving among the crates in search of him, Rick was a goner.  He had no weapon, and no way to escape the area with any type of speed.  All he could do now was wait.

 

            Cord's voice came from the front of the building.

 

            "The latest shipment arrived on Wednesday."

 

            Rick recognized Tom Bidwell as the next speaker.

 

            "How many more are you planning to get?"

            "Roughly three more shipments.  Maybe four. That should be more than enough to carry out our plan."

 

            Rick heard boot heels scraping against wood.  The urge to make himself smaller was overwhelming, but the cramped space he was in made such a move impossible.

 

            "December twenty-second is still the day?"  Bidwell asked.

            "Yes, the twenty-second.  It'll be perfect.  The entire country will stand up and take notice just like they did with Kansas City."  Rick could tell Cord had turned and was headed toward the door.  "And believe me, Tom, it's about time someone took notice of us."

 

___________________________________

           

 

            When Rick heard the door shut and lock he cautiously peeked one eye over the row of crates.  He was alone again, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

 

            I'm gettin' too damn old for this shit, were the detective's thoughts as he rose on stiff legs.  He dropped down again when he heard Cord's voice from somewhere outside.  "Randall!  Private Randall, I want you over here now!  You've got the night shift!"

 

            Oh great.  He's puttin' a guard back on duty.

 

            Rick's body begged him not to exit the building in the manner his mind suggested, but he had no choice.  He waited until he was certain Cord and Bidwell had walked away.  He had no idea if the guard had arrived yet, but he knew he had to get out of the building as quickly as possible.

 

            The detective eased the back window up.  The old wood caught and held a mere three inches from the sill, making Rick wonder if he was trapped in here. 

 

            Damn! I shoulda' checked the window when I first came in.  I shoulda' known there was a good chance it'd get stuck.

 

            Rick gave a mighty heave. He prayed for all he was worth that the guard wouldn't hear him.  It was a prayer that was answered.  The swollen wood slid upwards with a screech, but Rick didn't halt its movement.  He raised it enough so his body would fit through the opening, then cautiously stuck his head out.  He looked to the left and to the right,but didn't see anyone.  He slithered over the sill on his belly like a snake, using his hands to brace himself when he hit the ground.  As quietly as he could, Rick eased his legs and feet out. The last thing he needed after making it this far was to break the glass with his hiking boots.

 

            Rick stood and slid the window closed.  Again it screeched, but the guard didn't seem to notice.  There was still enough noise coming from the central compound to cause Rick to conclude the guard hadn't been able to hear anything he deemed unusual. 

 

            The detective walked straight back from the building until he came to the open field behind it.  It was dark enough now that it would be hard for anyone to spot him.   He turned and trotted toward the woods.  He felt a measure of safety when he was hidden within the trees.

 

            When Rick emerged from a hiking trail fifteen minutes later he was behind the mess hall where the vehicles were parked.  He could see Cord standing with Bidwell at the corner of the building.  Cord was looking to the left and right, concern etched on his furrowed brow.  Bidwell looked over and saw Rick.  He tapped Cord on the upper arm and pointed.  Even from this distance, Rick could see the relief on his friend's face.

 

            "Rick!"  Cord jogged to his sergeant.  "Where you been?  I was just about to send out a search party.  I went to my cabin, and when I couldn't find you there or in the bathroom, I got worried."

 

            "Sorry.  I dropped off to sleep the minute my head hit the pillow, but a damn nightmare woke me up a little while later.  I think the fireworks got to me, if you know what I mean.  I had to get some fresh air so I took a walk."

 

            There was no mistaking the doubt in Bidwell's voice.  "A nightmare?" 

 

            "Yeah.  I get 'em sometimes.  It's the legacy of Nam. Her ghosts still haunt me."  Rick turned to his old friend, intentionally cementing the bond between the two of them.  "Cord understands."

 

            Cord put his arm around Rick's shoulders.  "I sure do understand, Sarge.  We laid with her every night for twenty-six months and she was a bitch of a lover.  Still is yet today."

 

            Rick rubbed a hand over his eyes. Now that the adrenalin rush provided by the black bag job had passed the detective’s weariness didn't have to be faked.

 

            "Come on, Sarge.  Let's get you to bed."  Cord looked over Rick's head.  "Tell everyone to call it a night, Tom.  It's getting late, and our guest needs his sleep."

 

            "No, Cord.  No," Rick negated. "Don't spoil their fun 'cause of me."

 

            "No one's spoiling anyone's fun.  It's time for everyone to hit the sack anyway.   Calisthenics start at O'seven hundred."

 

            Cord couldn't help but laugh when Rick moaned,  "Calisthenics?  Now he tells me."

 

            Tom Bidwell watched the two men walk together to Cord's cabin.  There were several things he didn't like about Simon, the preferential treatment Cord was giving him being first and foremost.

 

            Cord's second in command signaled for the bonfire to be extinguished and the tables and chairs to be carried back to the mess hall.  When someone didn't move as fast as Tom wanted him to, he booted the man in the ass.  When Bidwell was out of earshot the soldier with the sore behind turned to one of his friends.

 

            "What's his problem?"

 

            "Haven't you noticed?"

 

            "Noticed what?"

 

            "He's pissed 'cause he's not the general's special boy any more.  I'll bet you fifty bucks that by next weekend Bidwell's third in command, and Simon's sittin' pretty in the number two spot."

 

            "I'm not sure that would be all bad.  This Simon guy seems really sharp."

 

            "Yeah, he does. And he's sure not a grouchy old bear like Tom."

 

            "Speaking of the grouchy bear, let's get this job done before he comes out of his cabin roaring."  The man folded four chairs and scooped them up in his arms. "Sometimes I wonder why I put myself through this weekend after weekend."

 

            "You know why."

 

            The man carrying the chairs smiled, thinking of the promise Cord had made them. 

 

“Yeah, I guess you're right.  I do know why."

             

 

Chapter 15

 

 

            A.J.'s household enjoyed the luxury of a lazy Sunday morning.  They hadn't returned from the fireworks held at Balboa Park until midnight, meaning no one was too eager to start the new day.  A.J. was the first to stir at eight. The pancakes and bacon he had cooking on the griddle called the rest of the family to breakfast at nine.

 

            After a leisurely meal, the boys did their morning chores of clearing the table, making their beds. and walking Toby.  Upon their return with the basset hound, Lauren sent her sons up to their room to do their homework.  While Shane and Tanner went about their tasks, Lauren and A.J. started tasks of their own.  Lauren separated baby clothes from blankets, sorting the items into two laundry baskets.  She carried the baskets down to the garage where she started the washer.  While the little clothes twirled round and round in the machine she sat at the dining room table writing thank you notes.

 

            A.J. busied himself in the nursery.  He put the mobile together and hung it over the crib, then ran the vacuum cleaner throughout the entire upper story.  He vacuumed out Lauren's van next, sucking up stray pieces of wrapping paper and ribbon.  Once the inside of the mini-van was spotless he drove it to the nearest Escobar car wash and used the automatic lane.  When he returned home he exchanged the van for the Camaro and repeated the cleaning process all over again.

 

            By noon everyone was done with his or her assigned chores.  The boys were sitting in the den watching one of the Disney movies Cecilia had given them when A.J. entered.  The blond man clapped his hands together.

 

"Who wants to go to the beach?"

 

            "I do!  I do!"  Shane and Tanner yelled as one.

 

            "All right then.  Shut the TV off and get your clothes changed.  Meet me at the van in ten minutes."

 

            A.J. insisted his wife take advantage of the soon-to-be quiet house and rest.  He changed into a T-shirt and his swim trunks, grabbed beach towels from the linen closet, and herded the boys to the mini-van. 

 

            The detective treated his stepsons to lunch at a hot dog stand, and then drove to the same beach where his father used to take A.J. and Rick when they were kids.  The trio swam and played in the waves before working together to build a sand castle.  When they arrived back home at three-thirty Lauren had just woken from a nap and was curled in the corner of the sofa reading some material she'd brought home from her office.  Her men changed out of their wet suits, and with Lauren's permission, the boys mounted their bikes and headed for the neighborhood park where they'd seen a group of their friends playing.

 

            This time it was Lauren who insisted her husband enjoy a quiet house.  She poured him a glass of lemonade, handed him the Sunday paper, and steered him toward the deck.  After his afternoon in the sun A.J. had to admit Lauren's suggestion was just what the doctor ordered.  He sipped his drink while reading the front page, never noticing when he dropped off to sleep.  He didn't wake up again until five, when he heard Lauren light the grill.

 

            The pregnant woman shared the chaise lounge with her husband for a few minutes. They lay together looking out over the canal, A.J. with his arms wrapped around his wife. 

 

            Lauren rested her head on A.J.'s shoulder.  "Why don't you call your mom and see if she wants to join us for dinner.  It's not going to be anything fancy.  Just barbecued chicken along with the tomatoes and sweet corn we bought at the farmer's market yesterday morning, but she might like to come over."

 

            "I'm sure she will."  A.J. kissed his wife on the temple as he rose.   "I'll call her right now."

 

            Cecilia took A.J. and Lauren up on their offer.  At six-thirty the family sat down to dinner at the table on the deck.  With so many helping hands, cleanup was quick work.  After supper Tanner and Shane led the way back to the park, Toby and the three adults following in their wake.

 

            The boys and Toby played for the next thirty minutes, while the grownups sat on a bench and talked.  Before it was time to leave A.J. bought everyone ice cream from a park vendor. Even Toby got a small dish of vanilla to lick from. 

 

            Because the following day was the beginning of another work and school week for the Simon family, Lauren told her boys to say good night to Grandma C. and then ushered them in the house for showers.  Shane claimed the bathroom in the upstairs hallway between the boys' room and the nursery, while Lauren had Tanner shower in the master bathroom.  A.J. stood in the driveway talking to his mother as the July sun set.  Cecilia knew Rick was away for the weekend on a camping trip with an old buddy from Vietnam, but for her own safety her sons hadn't divulged any details of their current case to her. 

 

            A.J. waved goodbye to his mother and watched her drive off toward her home in Mission Bay.  He entered the house to find Lauren setting the coffee maker for the next morning.   She pointed toward the upstairs.  "The boys are waiting for you, hon."

 

            The detective nodded, taking the stairs two at a time.  Tanner and Shane were in their pajamas, seated together on Tanner's bottom bunk.  Toby had already found his favorite spot in the middle of their bedroom floor and was fast asleep.

 

            Tanner handed his stepfather a paperback book as A.J. slipped in between the boys.  Shane snuggled into A.J.'s right side, while Tanner did the same on the left.  The blond man opened to where the bookmark indicated the beginning of a new chapter.  He had started reading The Hobbit to the boys in April.  This nightly ritual of A.J. reading to his stepsons had begun shortly after he and Lauren had married.  They'd worked their way through three of the Little House On The Prairie series before deciding they wanted a change of pace for a few months.  A.J. knew the boys would fall in love with the fantasy world created by J.R.R. Tolkien and he'd been correct. Bilbo Baggins and his friends had become fast favorites.

 

            A.J. glanced at his watch to see it was twenty minutes to nine.  The boys' bedtime was nine o'clock sharp.  He started reading where they'd left off the evening before. 

 

            The blond man was just getting ready to close the book when Lauren called from below. 

 

            "A.J.!  Rick's here!"

 

            "Tell him I'll be right down!"

 

            A.J. marked their page and set the book on the boys' nightstand.  He allowed them to run downstairs and say hello and good night to Rick.  When they returned, he tucked Tanner into the lower bunk while Shane climbed the ladder to the upper one.  The red headed boy reached behind him to the headboard where he plucked his stuffed Bilbo Baggins from the Hobbit's perch.  A.J. had found the toy in a bookstore and purchased it for his stepson's Easter basket.  Ever since that day Tanner had refused to go to sleep without Bilbo.

 

            The boy lifted his arms up and around A.J.'s neck.  "Night, A.J."

 

            "Good night, Tanner."  A.J. kissed the six-year-old's forehead.  "Pleasant dreams."

 

            "You too."

 

            A.J. sidled out from the bunk and stood upright.  He straightened Shane's covers and kissed a cheek.   "Good night, pal."

 

            "Night, A.J."

 

            As the detective turned to shut off the light and exit the room, Shane's voice stopped him.

 

            "A.J.?"

            "Yes?"

 

            "What's the witness club?"

 

            "Witness club?  I'm not sure I know what you mean, Shane."

 

            "You know.  Like when a person is a hero and then the FBI has to hide him in a special club."

 

            Though this was the most unusual explanation A.J. had ever heard regarding the FBI's ‘special club’ the detective now surmised what the boy was referring to.  "You mean the witness protection program?"

            "Yeah.  Is there really such a thing?"

 

            "Yes, as a matter of fact there is. The witness protection program is one way our government keeps people safe who are willing to testify against a criminal."

 

            "But you and Rick have testified against a lot of criminals. Are you guys in the witness protection program?"

 

            A.J. chuckled.  "No, we're not.  And I hope we never have reason to be.  A person ends up taking part in the program when he or she has testified against a criminal who is very dangerous.  A criminal who has friends who might want to seek revenge against the witness.  In exchange for the person's testimony in court, the FBI gives him a new identity and moves hi to a different location.  What makes you ask, anyway?  Are you thinking of going into hiding on us?"

            "No.  I was just wondering; that's all.  A friend of mine mentioned it."

 

             "Oh.  Well, it sounds like your friend watches too much TV.  You don't need to worry about anyone in this family being candidates for the witness protection program."  With one hand on the door knob A.J. shut the light out. "Good night, boys."

 

            Shane propped himself up on one elbow.   "But my friend didn't see it on TV.  Her dad--"

 

            Before the eight-year-old could finish his sentence the door was closed.  Within five minutes time he joined his brother in dreamland, forgetting all about the letter he wanted to share with A.J.

           

___________________________________

           

 

            A.J. rounded the stairs into the den and saw his brother seated at the kitchen table eating a cold chicken breast and a sliced tomato.  A can of Pepsi resided at the head of his plate.

 

            When A.J. walked into the kitchen Lauren relinquished her seat.  "Gentlemen, this pregnant woman needs to call it a night.  I'll leave you guys to talk business."

 

            "Thanks for supper, Lauren."                  

 

            Lauren kissed her brother-in-law's cheek.  "Don't mention it.  Besides, you didn't mooch one breakfast off of us all week.  At that rate I figured I owed you a meal."          

 

            Rick chuckled while Lauren kissed her husband's lips. 

 

            "Good night, sweetheart."

 

            "Good night."

 

            Lauren shut the light off in the den as she passed, leaving just the kitchen light on for Rick and A.J.  She made her way up the stairs, A.J. tracking the progress of her footsteps.  He heard the boys' bedroom door open just long enough for Lauren to poke her head in, then heard it softly click shut.  A few seconds later he heard the door to the master bedroom close behind his wife.

 

            The brothers remained silent, the only noise in the room being the click of Rick's silverware against his plate.  When he was finished he pushed the plate aside and swallowed the remainder of his drink.  For whatever reason, Rick wouldn't meet A.J.'s eyes when he rose to throw his Pepsi can in the garbage and place his dirty dishes in the sink.  He opened a kitchen drawer, grabbing a pad of paper and a pen.

 

            "Come on."

 

            A.J. looked after his brother with confusion.  "Where to?"

            "Let's go out on the deck so we can talk without disturbin' Lauren and the boys."

 

            A.J. followed Rick outside.  He flicked the deck lights on as he passed the switch next to the French doors. Because the central air conditioning was running in the house, A.J. shut the doors over the screens and joined Rick at the round picnic table.

 

            Though darkness had fallen, the July evening was still warm and muggy. Lights shone from the houses across the way, but other than the occasional sound of a passing car the neighborhood was quiet.  Rick was the first to speak.

 

            "Well, I'm glad Lauren offered me that chicken, 'cause otherwise I woulda' been forced to eat that stuff I hate so much."

 

            "What stuff?"

 

            "Crow."

 

            A.J. slowly nodded his understanding.  "I see.  So your weekend brought you to some conclusions."

 

            "It brought me to a lotta conclusions.  None of which I like, but all of which I have to face."

 

            "I'm sorry."

 

            Rick smiled softly.   "You don't need to be sorry for anything, A.J.  I'm the one who should be apologizing for the way I spouted off in the office on Tuesday.You were right, I was already lettin' this case get under my skin.  I was doing a good job of denying little things I was already seein' in Cord that made what Creek told us a good possibility."  Rick sat back in his chair, pushing his breath out in heavy sigh.  "But now I've seen those things for myself.  All of Creek's suspicions are true.  Cord's group is planning their own Armageddon.  True to the information Creek has, it'll happen here in San Diego on the twenty-second of December."

 

            "Cord told you all this?"

            "I learned it at a so-called staff meeting this morning.  I didn't expect to be included in the inner circle so quickly.  Cord acted a bit hastily in that regard in my opinion, but, of course, that only benefits us."

 

            A.J. didn't voice what Rick left unspoken. That Cord's hasty actions only emphasized further the enormous amount of trust and respect he had for Rick.  Regardless of what harm Cord intended to rain upon the innocent citizens of San Diego, A.J. knew it had to be difficult for Rick to justify the way he would ultimately be forced to betray the man.

 

            "At this point I don't know the exact targets of the bombs.  I